The first time the Way of the Voice is explained to Miraak, he does not understand.

He laughs. The look of genuine annoyance on the Last Dragonborn's face only adds to the hilarity. Miraak folds his arms and ridicules the very notion of denying one's inborn nature, of refraining from the use of power. Hypocrisy, he jeers, having seen his rival flaunt her abilities in battle time and time again. Indeed, it is only her power that holds him back from pursuing his own ends in this new age. For now he will indulge her pointless need for control and order – if only so ridding himself of such nuisance will be easy once the time comes. Experience dictates that trust is the key to exploitation.

Yet it irks him that he does not understand. Comprehension leads to mastery, mastery leads to might; even if he does not agree with the ideology, understanding it will aid in his endeavor to undo it entirely. And so he ponders. Days and nights spent traveling with the Dragonborn provide ample time to contemplate the matter, during lulls when neither beast nor bandit threaten the party. It is humiliating, having to rely on her for the time being, but the damage inflicted by Hermaeus Mora during their escape from Apocrypha has yet to mend. In this weakened state, it is wise to bide his time.

It is during a particularly brutal clash with a coven of vampires that the Dragonborn summons Odahviing to rain fire-breath down on the undead. The black of night is turned to angry red by the flames and Miraak's certainty is turned to bewilderment as he observes the ancient dragon's subservience to – no, respect for – his rival. There is no bending of will, no display of power to cow the dragon into submission. There is only allegiance. It is a wholly alien sight to the man whose life has been defined by the roles of master and servant, and after Odahviing takes leave Miraak finds himself staring at the dwindling blaze and wondering why he did not seize the opportunity to force the dragon to roast the Last Dragonborn alive.

I do not understand, his own voice laments in the back of his mind, and his frustration only grows.

A query earns him a sharp look from the elf but she shares a brief tale of how Odahviing bore her to the fane of Skuldafn. Miraak has taken to the skies on many a dragon mount but never with the beast's consent; indeed, to learn that a dragon willingly traded loyalty to Alduin for service to a mortal comes nearly as blasphemy to his ears. Hatred, fear, retribution – these things are what fuel his Thu'um when he seizes control of a dragon's mind and forces it to acknowledge him as Thuri. Yet when the Dragonborn called for Odahviing, there was only certainty in the strong force of her summons. His revulsion masks the roiling confusion inside and his callous dismissal of the recollection does not ward off the questions that plague his thoughts before sleep.

Men fear what they do not understand, and Miraak loathes the sensation of fear.

Endure, he reminds himself. Outlast persist exceed dominate. Words that have sustained him through the darkest of days and the cruelest of nights. Memories of servitude, of shrieking sacrifices and blood streaming from profane altars, darken his dreams and strengthen his resolve.

Power is victory, and those who refuse to use their power are fools. He will execute these Greybeards, absorb the soul of their Grandmaster, the damnable Paarthurnax, and reclaim glory as their lifeblood colors the mountain snow. A new era shall dawn. It is all Miraak has ever dreamed of in his heart of hearts, for what do petty notions of good and evil mean in a world where only dominance can establish peace? He will force the entire realm of Nirn to bow if it means ridding it of all the senseless squabbles that blight its fabric. Above men, above mer, above dragons – that is Miraak's destiny. Or so he has told himself for so many years now that he cannot remember a time when he sought anything else.

And so he continues to his charade for many more days, many more weeks, acquainting himself with this new world and observing the Dragonborn as she plays the hero for all the simple folk who cannot accomplish anything for themselves. She could easily enthrall them all, break them, use them as tools to build a temple or an army or an empire, yet she simply tolerates their mundane drivel and leaves them to their mediocrity. Miraak cannot help expressing his disapproval; we are not as they are, he reminds the Dragonborn one evening as they watch the sun set over the Jeralls. Our very natures drive us to use them like the livestock they are.

I am Dovahkiin, of dragons born and blooded, the elf snaps, lips pulled back in a snarl. Is it only natural to succumb to one's inborn tendencies, or slavery to impulse? I resist and defy. Do not presume to comprehend me.

An unexpected response. One that sticks in Miraak's craw for many more nights to come. Far from the regurgitated pacifistic platitudes he has grown used to from the Dragonborn – after digesting his irritation, he realizes there is admiration lurking somewhere in his being. Those are not the words of a reluctant Dragonborn ensconced in a creed of self-denial and altruism. Those are the words of a dov and they burn with the essence of a dovah's pride.

He almost envies Alduin. What a glorious battle that final confrontation in Sovngarde must have been – what pure, raw fury must have surged forth from the Dragonborn as she slew the World-Eater! Miraak knows he will witness no such grandeur when the time comes to rid himself of his rival. Her death must be quick and efficient... or he will be utterly doomed. Of this he has little doubt.

Slowly, painfully, he has come to realize his folly. Whatever the Way of the Voice might have been, it is something entirely different as practiced by the Dragonborn. He can no longer laugh at her talk of restraint and balance, for he finally understands what previously eluded his grasp. What it is that makes her so dangerous. By conserving her power, by refusing to give in to greed, she has conquered frontiers no amount of martial prowess could take. By staying her hand, she has won hearts instead of bending wills. There is no crown upon her head, no mantle upon her shoulders, but what king or tyrant in all of history could boast the unfettered loyalty of a dragon?

In the shadow of such accomplishment, Miraak and his legacy of dragon-thralls lose luster. This he accepts. The sting is a lesson learned. Understanding brings sorrow and discontent, a truth made painfully intimate during his time in Apocrypha.

He must kill her soon, he muses as he watches her doze on the other side of their little camp, or not at all, for he is beginning to see why Odahviing deems her worthy of lordship... and if his eyes are opened but a little wider, he fears he will lose sight of his goals as that light blinds him.